Nightmare Chronicles

The Abyss

The old house on the hill had long been abandoned, its windows dark and gaping, its wooden walls sagging under the weight of years. There were no clear reasons why people avoided the house—just rumors, of course, murmured at the edges of town. Some spoke of strange occurrences, odd sounds at night, or the way animals refused to come near it. No one dared to enter, except for Cemil, a historian with a peculiar obsession.

Cemil had spent months researching the house. There was something about its architecture that intrigued him—an odd symmetry to the building, despite its decay. But more than that, there were stories about its original owner, a recluse named Aslan, who had dabbled in forgotten rites. Aslan had vanished without a trace nearly fifty years ago, and no one had lived there since.

One mist-laden evening, with curiosity overpowering caution, Cemil decided to venture inside. Armed with nothing but a flashlight and a journal, he crossed the threshold of the creaking door. A musty stench hit him immediately, the air thick with neglect and something... older. The floorboards groaned under his feet, and dust stirred in the thin beam of his flashlight.

The house was eerily quiet. No wind stirred the curtains, no sounds of distant birds or insects crept inside. Cemil could hear nothing but his own breath as he moved from room to room, observing ancient, broken furniture and walls lined with faded paintings of figures he could not recognize. There was something unsettling about their eyes, the way they seemed to watch him.

He stopped in front of a portrait—one of a tall man with sunken eyes, his face sallow, his expression severe. There was no nameplate, but Cemil felt certain this was Aslan, the long-lost owner of the house. The man's gaze felt piercing, as though the painting was studying him, judging his every move.

Suddenly, a faint sound echoed from the floor below—a low, rhythmic tapping. Startled, Cemil turned his flashlight toward the stairs that descended into the basement. The door was ajar, and the air seemed to grow colder the closer he approached. He hesitated for only a moment before stepping down into the darkness.

The basement was suffocatingly damp. Water dripped from the ceiling, pooling in muddy rivulets along the stone floor. In the far corner, Cemil's light fell on a large wooden crate, covered in dust. It was partially opened, and inside, something glimmered faintly. His pulse quickened as he moved toward it, but then he froze.

The tapping sound returned, louder now, and unmistakable. It was coming from behind him.

Slowly, he turned, the flashlight beam shaking in his grip. A shape was moving in the shadows. Something pale, something... crawling. It was barely human in form, with arms too long, and a body that twisted unnaturally as it slithered toward him.

Cemil stumbled backward, his breath quickening, his heart pounding so loudly it felt as though the sound would give him away. He tried to flee, but his legs felt heavy, like they were sinking into the cold, wet ground.

Then, the figure stopped. Its face—or what remained of it—lifted toward him. A voice rasped out of the darkness, low and gurgling, a sound not meant for human ears.

"You... remember."

The words hit him like a blow, though he didn't understand. He shook his head, backing toward the crate, his hand blindly grasping the edge as if it would anchor him to reality.

"I... remember," the voice hissed again, and the thing lurched forward.

Cemil's mind raced. Memories—strange, disjointed—began to flood his thoughts. The portrait upstairs, the man with the sunken eyes, the endless research into the house, into Aslan, into... something. No, not research. Something else.

The creature was inches away now, its face, a grotesque mockery of Aslan's, twisted with something far beyond human comprehension. But it wasn't just Aslan. It was... it was Cemil himself. Their faces seemed to blur and merge in the dim light of the flashlight.

A wave of terror surged through him as he realized the truth. This house had called to him, drawn him in not as a curious historian, but as something much darker. He was not the first Cemil to enter this house. He had lived this before. Over and over again, every fifty years, he had returned. The house—no, Aslan—was part of him.

And now, the cycle was beginning again.

The creature reached out, its long fingers closing around Cemil's arm, cold as death. "You cannot escape the memory..."

The floor beneath him began to shift, the walls breathing as the house itself awakened. Cemil screamed, but the sound was lost in the writhing darkness, swallowed by the ancient evil that had been waiting for his return.

From that night on, the house on the hill stood silent once more, though the villagers noticed something strange—a new portrait hanging in the old gallery. The man's face was gaunt, his eyes sunken, and his expression severe.

No one recognized him.

And no one dared to look too closely.